Wake Me When Summer Comes
by BelleDean
Summary: A tangled web of deceit, spun by Rose, St. Mary's reigning queen, traps Bella in its midst. While struggling to escape, she discovers that not everything is as it appears.
1. Chapter 1

**Lulu M and Jennrosee beta this. I owe them for reading this over and over and over again.**

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1.

My eyes flick from the mahogany framed Ivy League degree to the orange file cabinet to her steel blue eyes. The expression on her face after my tale about Renee not coming home one night is as calm as the sea on a still summer day. Hard to tell whether she spotted the lies.

"And how do you feel about that?" she asks.

The clock above her desk reads quarter to. Time's up. Through the blinds in the glass door, I see ADD kid, wearing an Iron Maiden shirt today, waiting for his allotted time with Dr. Denali. Knees shaking, eyes twitching, he's sitting on the green plastic chairs of the waiting room clutching a phone in his hands.

"I don't know. I'm still working through it, I guess," I tell her.

A sigh follows. She flips the pen with her pink polished fingers—once, twice—scribbles down something on her notepad, then straightens her back and gives me her disapproving school teacher stare.

"You know, you're not going to get better unless you make an effort."

"I'm trying, I promise."

"Maybe you can think about what I suggested before, about keeping a journal?" She raises her eyebrows, one corner of her glossed mouth twitches up until her mild-mannered princess smile is fully in place. I bet she thinks that smile makes her seem friendly, understanding, when in reality it comes across as condescending.

"Sure." I nod.

Rose would love this bitch with her perfectly ironed hair and Chanel slippers. "Diaries are for boring people," she once said. "Memoirs, that's the shit you write if you're halfway interesting."

"See you next Tuesday, Bella," Dr. Irina Denali says, getting up from her spot behind the desk.

"Okay." I swing my old school satchel over the shoulder and head to the door.

The journal thing will never happen. I won't get better from jotting down stuff about my boring existence, just like the guy outside her office won't be voted Prom King next year. All he gets from his weekly therapy with Irina is a good visual for his evening ritual, something to get the juices flowing before he dozes off.

ADD kid jumps up from his chair quickly without looking up and stalks past me into her office, leaving the smell of benzoyl peroxide and misery behind.

At night, my phone stays silent. No text messages, no missed calls, no Facebook notifications blinking. All remains quiet in the wasteland. By six thirty AM, I get up, shower, lather, rinse, repeat. I put on the school uniform, apply some makeup, pinch my cheeks. The house is empty. Charlie's at work. The new car, a VW Golf, parked outside the kitchen window, has calmed his guilty conscience, so he's been leaving early again. It's not his fault.

The closer I get to St. Mary's, the more my gut churns, the stickier the palms of my hands become. I despise the red bricked building attached to the church, the nuns who run the place, the stale air reeking of disinfectant, the shine of the daily polished linoleum floors, the crucifix hanging on the wall, the grey blank walls of the halls, but most of all, I hate the people. School used to be okay when I was naïve sticking to my best friend. Back when we were toenail painting, blackberry cordial downing best friends.

Now Rose's gone; it's my fault. School is hell since she left.

AP history passes without much happening. Lauren's a no show and Stanley, her lieutenant, is busy when I leave the room. The pleated skirt of her school uniform's bunched up high so you can see her underpants—a strategic decision. They're the red lacy type meant to be seen. Unfortunately, Newton doesn't bite. Only the old dragon does and gives her detention.

Newton with his bulldog jowls and watery blue eyes leans against my locker. "So how about the Cliffs tomorrow night? You and me, Swan, some beers to get us in the mood," he starts, towering over me.

Some girl from the reservation killed herself there last spring. Jumped down into the dark, falling, flying until she hit the black rocks far below. Rose claimed she saw her right before she walked over the edge without hesitation. She said it was kind of beautiful, said that she looked like a girl from one of the old Indian lores, swan-diving down to her death into the cold, harsh waters because her one true love had abandoned her for a white girl. Edward was with her that night and said he didn't see a thing. People were freaked out for five minutes, and then went right back to unbuttoning their pants and hitching their skirts up at that very same spot.

My heart starts beating faster. His hair's freshly trimmed into his standard buzz cut. The tie of his uniform hangs over the lapel of his blazer; the shirt's unbuttoned, the heavy gold chain with the cross pendant on display on his bare chest. I try to ignore him and focus on a poster in the back. _Come Join St. Mary's School Orchestra. _He used to give up easily, but not anymore.

He's fixated on the idea we'll hook up, convinced I'm easy game. The only thing Newton's accomplishing so far is giving Stanley more ammunition to hate my guts. Not that it matters. Jessica Stanley hated me from the first day we met in 6th grade, and nothing is going to change that.

"Come on." Undeterred, he leans closer, covering me in a cloud of drugstore cologne. He thinks he's hot stuff. His parents own the only mom and pop store that makes money. A place in a strip mall that supplies hunting gear—guns, rifles and pistols mostly. Aside from Stanley, no one gives him the time of day. "It's not like you have anything better to do." He's correct about that. "And I doubt Cullen would come down to visit you. Heck, I bet you even if he was still living next door to you, he wouldn't be hanging out with you anymore."

The practiced, calm expression of indifference slips for a split second, and Newton knows he's got me.

"What?" he continues. "No, really?" I attempt to walk past him, but he holds onto the sleeve of my shirt. Tyler, standing a couple of feet behind him, approvingly does the blowjob motion with the tongue in his cheek. I ignore him. Newton smirks. "You're still holding out hope? That's so cute."

"You suck, Newton, you know that?" I reply, pulling my arm out of his grip. He turns red.

"No. Everyone here knows you suck. Mighty well, I heard," he yells after me, then high-fives his posse of posers loitering nearby.

I walk to my next class, careful not to run, not to panic, snickers and whispers following me.

I wanted to leave right after, move in with Renee. Even considered switching schools when shit started hitting the fan. But then the lecture from Sister Cope followed. "Transfers at this point in time are not recommended, unless, of course, it is necessitated by one of the guardian's relocation. That doesn't seem to be the case here," she told me. When I didn't flinch, she bore her old fish eyes down on me, imploring, "The paperwork can take a while. Graduation could get delayed."

It'll be only eight more months now until graduation. I'll survive. Besides, I could tell Charlie didn't think it was a good idea. And he's been a good sport, making excuses for me on days when I wasn't up to going to school.

So I stayed despite the fact that things won't get better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jennrosee & LuluM beta this. Many thanks to them. My anonymous pre-reader is pure genius. **

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**2.****  
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The house Charlie was born in is a plain, two-story stone building—old and fading, like him on most days. Once-upon-a-time black roof shingles are now a washed out gray and the wooden siding insipid beige. The house's in good condition—he maintains it—but it no longer belongs on this block of remodeled houses with floor length windows, cemented driveways, added attics, central air and double garages with automatic doors. Hardly anyone can see the outdated house, hidden behind a thick strip of evergreens on one side, while a tall hedge masks the other. Back when Edward first moved next door four years ago, the hedge was a good three feet shorter, flaunting the modern glass and concrete construction that is the Cullen house sitting on the other side.

Staring out the kitchen window at the wall of green, a figure emerges out of the trees. Stiff, locked-legged Angela Webber crosses the lawn, looking twice over her shoulder. I open the front door before she knocks.

"Hey," she mumbles, dressed in her school uniform, all prim and proper—the blouse tucked in and the skirt regulation length. "Pansy Angie"Rose used to call her. "You forgot your book." She starts digging in her cotton sack and pulls out my math book.

"Thanks. You didn't have to do that," I say. Angie tugs at the sleeves of her blazer. "Don't worry. No one will know you were here."

We haven't hung out in ages; she doesn't owe me anything. At school, she makes a circle, just like the rest.

"That's not it," she says, vehemently shaking her head. Something akin to determination flames up for a second before it fades away and her brown lapin eyes reappear. I bet she's considering the Christian deed—fraternize with the town leper. The whole Weber clan's ultra religious. Mrs. Weber, robed in homely flower dresses, gives the nuns a run for their money on who's the most devout in town; attending every service, hosting bible groups and stocking the food pantry on her days off.

"Well," she starts again, her eyes still wandering—anywhere but me. I think about inviting her in, but we both know what's going to win right now. Taking a tumble, slipping lower on St. Mary's social ladder is not an option. She's not at the top or at the bottom. She's comfortable where she is—hiding in the middle.

"It's okay," I tell her. I don't blame her.

She nods, pulls her bag over her shoulder tighter and steps back. I watch her take the first step away from the door, down the path to the gap in the hedge. Turning on her heel in her ballet flats, she pins me with her gaze and says quickly, "Have you seen Rose?"

I freeze in my spot, caught off guard by her question, unsure why she's asking. "She's gone. You know." She disappeared along with her Facebook page, her cell phone and the car her dad bought her last spring.

"Are you sure?" she replies.

I nod and look away, closing the front door quickly.

Glued together at the hip since I moved to this town. Blood-brothered in Charlie's shack. Summer camps and sleepovers in her pink bed. I miss Rose, and here everything reminds me of her. The black beach, hidden by cliffs, where we used to run into cold waves until our lips turned blue; the convenience store where Rose stole booze on a dare; but most of all, St. Mary's.

_SEVEN YEARS AGO_

Second week in hell. I'm standing petrified and shivering in white underpants with purple flowers in the girl's changing room, staring into the empty locker. My satchel's in there, but my clothes are missing.

I know who took them. Boys shove you off the spinabout or hit you with a snowball. You always know who did the deed. It's all out in the open. Girls though, some of us, we like to play games, like to hatch plans in secret. I've been in this town, this school, for two weeks, and I've learned quickly that there're two who have it out for me; who'd do this just because. The rest of them just stare.

Yelling for Coach Clapp's pointless. The minute he locked away the rubber balls he had me collect, he marched straight to the exit. He doesn't like me. Forced to deal with me on his softball team where I'll fail him every game. I run fast; I just never hit the ball. I don't care about being on the team, but Charlie insisted on it, went to Coach and demanded I'd be included.

_"I don't really care about softball," I whined._

_"Of course you do, Bells," he mumbled, patting me on my head while he took a call from the station—his attention already focused on other, more important things. _

Panic starts creeping in deeper. Snapping into action, I run around the cold, tiled floor in search of old clothes left behind.

"Hello?" I know whose voice it is—Rosalie Hale. Everyone knows who she is.

I fret, not sure it's wise to answer, whether to trust her—the flaxen-haired doll of a girl, the fairest of them all. "Yes?" I reply meekly when she stands in the door, eyes narrowing in on me.

"What happened?" she asks coolly, approaching slowly.

"My clothes are gone. Someone must have taken them."

"Right." She rolls her dark blue eyes just so. "Someone. The Holy Spirit?" She laughs, standing a short distance away. Her thick hair is braided loosely in the back. An almost white strand is tucked behind her left ear playing up her lightly tanned skin. No freckles anywhere. Despite the cold weather, her long legs are bare.

I shrug my shoulders. "Don't tell Sister Cope."

"Chicken shit." She takes her sweatshirt off and hands it to me, then digs in her backpack and pulls out her gym shorts.

I stand there, unsure if this is just another trap. I don't have a choice, so I grab them. "She'll call my dad." I stumble pulling on her shorts.

"Fine. But you know you have to do something, right? You can't be a pushover. You have to fight back," she tells me with a sober mien.

"Tattling will only make it worse," I whisper. My hand sweeps over the Band-Aid under my chin that covers the still fresh wound.

It started out with a silly bracelet during the first week of classes. That day, Sister Cindy awarded trinkets—pens, key chains and other junk—to any student who answered a question to her impromptu oral math quiz correctly. I saw Lauren eyeing the bracelet as if it was the coolest thing ever. It was the kind made of thin leather cords that wrap around your wrist several times. You can buy them from stands at the mall for five dollars. Sister Cindy gave it to me for my correct answer.

Walking back to my seat, Lauren put her foot out quickly. I flew face first on the floor, hitting my head against a table on the way. My jaw hit the floor hard and blood came gushing, staining my shirt.

Sister Cindy ran to my side and let me out of class with a paper towel pressed under my chin. Waiting for Charlie at the nurse's office, I saw Lauren and Jess being marched to Sister Cope's office. Nobody saw anything, but Jessica broke under pressure, or so the story goes.

Dr. Cullen, our neighbor, stitched me up right in his living room. My emergency was interrupting lunch with his tiny, pretty wife, who fussed about the wound leaving a scar and made Charlie promise to take me to a specialist.

The next day, Charlie and I sat in Sister Cope's office with Lauren and Jessica and their moms. Charlie didn't look happy sitting in a room surrounded by angry women. A mumbled apology followed; nothing changed.

"Come. I have an idea," Rose says and pulls me by my hand out of the gym.

We go to our classroom—she, wearing only her short-sleeved shirt and the skirt, and me wearing her sweater with the standard dark blue gym shorts. Sister Cindy shoots me an admonishing glance. I'm not wearing the uniform.

Jess and Lauren snicker as I slide into my seat. The second the bell rings, signaling the end of class. While I'm still finishing my last subtraction, Rose grabs my stuff and pulls me up by my arm.

"Now," she hisses and stuffs my notebook and pencil into my bag. Trepidation rises from the pit of my stomach, but I follow her anyway into the girls bathroom where Jessica and Lauren are standing.

"Put your foot by the door and make sure nobody gets in," Rose commands under her breath, tossing her backpack on the floor. I blink a couple of times, not sure if it's a good idea. Rosalie Hale's right—I'm total chickenshit. I follow her orders and close the door shut.

"Hey, Rose," Lauren greets her.

"Shut up, Lauren. We're here to get Bella's stuff back."

"Bella's stuff?" Lauren asks, raising her eyebrows, playing dumb. Jessica giggles while I stand there in borrowed gym clothes, staring in shock.

"Don't be stupid. The stuff you took from her gym locker," Rose continues undeterred.

"Why? I mean, why would we take Bella's ratty, old clothes?" Lauren sneers, still sure of herself.

"Yeah, why would we?" Jessica huffs, like she doesn't care, but her corkscrew curls tied up into pigtails are vibrating; she's shaking. "They smell bad, like the rest of her. You know she never showers."

Without warning, Rose takes three steps forward and slaps Jess straight in the face. It looks and sounds like it does on TV—the scene where the jilted woman smacks her man on the cheek and then tosses a drink in his face. "Shut up! Or I'll rip your hair out and tell everyone your brother's a faggot. Do you hear me, fatty?"

I stand, mouth agape, in awe of her words, spoken with true authority.

Rose doesn't hesitate, doesn't wait for an answer. "Now, where did you put her clothes?" Jess' ruddy hamster cheeks are streaked, her lips quivering.

"Outside ..." Jess stutters, her eyes flicking to Lauren and then to the window in the back.

Lauren narrows her eyes, but she doesn't look scared, not in the slightest.

Rose forces Lauren back until her butt hits the sink. Lauren shoots a quick glance in my direction, surveys her scene, maybe deliberating whether to push me out of the way. I widen my stance, daring her and discover I may just have a spine.

"Now, or I'll take Jess to Sister Cope's. You know she'll rat you out in a heartbeat."

"Oh, please, as if I'd keep her gross stuff. They're in the dumpster behind the gym. Have fun diving."

"I won't. You will," Rose says calmly, raising one shoulder. "Let's go."

Lauren gives in, as if powered by the will of the girl with the light hair, and walks in my direction. Swinging the door open, I watch as Rose follows Lauren to the green garbage dumpsters. Jess dips the minute she has a chance.

"It's in that one." Lauren's pointing to the one in the middle. With a twitch of her head in my direction, she says to Rose, "Tell HER to go find her filthy clothes. I'm not doing it." She crosses her arms in front of her chest, taps her foot and glowers at me.

"Yeah, you will," Rose hisses and then suddenly shoves Lauren face first against the dumpster.

"Look what you did," Lauren cries out, tears in her eyes. I can see blood dripping from her nose.

"Stop being a baby, Lauren. You tossed it in there. Go get it!"

Crying and hiccupping, Lauren stumbles to a smaller garbage can standing next to the dumpster and climbs on top. A minute later, she tosses my skirt, shirt and blazer down to me.

"Thanks," is all I bring out as Rose waits while I dress. We walk home together, shoulder to shoulder.

"So, is it true? About Jess' brother, I mean," I ask her when we're a block away from the house with the hedge.

"I dunno. I heard my dad call Joe, her brother, a faerie. He works at the mill my dad runs," she says, a smile on her dimpled cheeks. Charlie later tells me Rose's father is the head honcho of the place and practically owns the whole town. Joe's nobody important.

"What's for dinner at your place?"

"I dunno. French fries and chicken nuggets? Maybe pizza." Charlie can't cook, so we only eat things you can heat up in the oven or sometimes sandwiches.

Rose nods and walks to the front door ahead of me.

Charlie's happy when he comes home from work and sees Rose, who gives him her sweet girl smile, while I shift like a nervous nelly on my chair, waiting for the phone to ring, for someone from school to knock on the door, but nothing happens. The bloody nose's not brought up over pizza and not when Rose's picked up shortly after by her mom in a big black SUV. I don't sleep well that night. I toss and turn between weird dreams.

On the ride to school the next day, I feel sick, start sweating and feel my heartbeat in my fingers. The bloody nose will have repercussions. As we come to a stop in front of the red brick building, I'm about to tell Charlie to take me back home, when I see Rose waiting at the steps, one hand on her hip, chin raised, her hair pulled high in a ponytail. Scrambling out of the car, I decide facing the music seems like my best choice.

Jess shoots Rose and me a wary look in homeroom. I'm starting to think what Rose said about Joe is true. Lauren, whose nose is red and swollen, doesn't look at us at all. A shot of pleasure hits me when we pass her—Rose and me walking side by side. I feel the strong surge of camaraderie for the first time in my life.

My moment ends with a short rap on the door. Sister Cope strides in with determination in her step, the long rope hiding rapidly clicking feet, her watery eyes ignoring us as speaks to the teacher, Sister Cindy, in a hushed tone. I shoot Rose a worried look, but she ignores me.

"Bella. Rose," Sister Cindy calls when the bell rings, just as I've expected. "Sister Cope would like to have a word with both of you in her office."

"I'm sorry," I mumble to Rose as we walk down the hall to the headmistress' office.

"Don't be silly. What for?" she replies, her ponytail tied with a blue ribbon swinging back and forth, and I shut up.

Reaching the large wooden door, Rose doesn't bother to knock and wait for an answer, just opens it straight away. Sister Cope is stopped in mid-step, with her robes swirling about her like a cloud of gray and her thin eyebrows arched faintly in surprise, as we enter.

"Please come in and sit down," she instructs. Rose and I sit in the two chairs placed in front of her desk, beneath the cavern of high vaulted ceilings and white walls. "I think you both know why I asked to speak to you."

I swallow and stare at the crucifix—Jesus looming above us on the wall with his crown of thorns, watching us in agony.

"I'm sorry, Sister Cope, but I have no idea why you want to see us," Rose says, before turning to face me. "Do you?"

I shake my head, too shocked to bring out a word. She's a perfect liar, no telltale signs. Sister Cope smiles like the cat that swallowed the canary whole. Maybe she's seen this act of Rose's before, and it's only going to get us in deeper.

"Well, Rose, Lauren's mother paid me a visit this morning with her daughter. She informed me her daughter came home yesterday from school with a bloody and badly bruised nose. As you both know, here at St. Mary's we shun any kind of physical violence, and this sort of behavior is therefore unacceptable no matter what Lauren may or may not have done to provoke your anger." She folds her hands, elbows on top of the polished, wooden table.

I shift in my seat, divert my gaze from the unwavering one across from me.

"Now," she starts again, pulling two envelopes from a folder, "the best way to learn from your past mistakes—and surely, you both know how wrong your behavior was—is to think long and hard on how you will redeem yourself. For this reason, I've given you both detention." She pushes the two envelopes to our side of the table. "Please hand those to your parents. It explains why you will spend extra hours under our care for the next two weeks."

I exhale in relief. I'm about to grab the letter and scuttle, when Rose replies, "I'm sorry. I still don't understand why we are being punished."

"Exactly what is it you don't understand?" Sister Cope gets up from her desk and starts putting files away. She thinks she's done with us.

"Frankly, I've no idea how Lauren got a bloody nose. The last time I saw her yesterday was in math class, last period. Bella and I spent the afternoon at her place doing homework. So I'm not sure why we would deserve detention." Rose's voice has gotten a pitch louder, halting the Sister in her step.

"Now, now dear." She shakes her head. "Do you think your parents would be pleased with you if they knew you were telling false tales?"

"I'm not lying. And I'm sure they would not be pleased to hear that an innocent girl's being accused of such a thing here at St. Mary's."

"Rosalie Hale, enough already!" she says shrilly. "You know very well that another student saw you and Bella leaving the girls restroom on the first floor with Lauren."

Rose sighs loudly. "And who would that be? That person is the liar."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me. May I please call my father?"

"Excuse me?" Her posture stiffens and her eyes twitch while she reconsiders the glaring girl in front of her for what seems like a long time. "I don't think that's necessary," she says finally through clenched teeth. Resuming her position behind the desk, and then leaning forward, she zeros in on me. "We haven't heard from your friend." With that smile back on her lips again, she asks, "Bella, could you please tell me what happened yesterday after class?"

I stare straight at her, remember how she cracked at Rose's mention of her father. "I have no idea how Lauren got the bloody nose. Rose and I went straight to my house."

She blinks, her ashen face reddening. The seconds tick. Until resignation sets in, her shoulders sag and she leans back. Finally, a "Well, then," follows. "You two are dismissed. Back to class."

We get up at the same time and walk out the door. I never look back.

Before I go to bed that night, I pray to Jesus, Mary and every Saint I can remember for Rose to stay my friend. I have no idea what Sister Cope told Lauren's mom, and I don't ask Rose about her father and why Sister Cope is scared of him. Lauren and Jessica don't mess with me again.

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**Sorry for not updating in so long. Real life has been killing me. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Jennrosee & LuluM beta this. Many thanks to them. My anonymous pre-reader is pure genius.**

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3.

Lunch in the girls room—last stall in the corner, near the window. There's the first rush right after class, a new coat of lip-gloss and some extra mascara's applied. It's quiet until Vicky, with her spray-tanned sticks for legs, stalks in. My feet are propped up against the door, so she doesn't see me when she bends down and checks the other stalls. Convinced the coast is clear, she dry heaves until the SlimFast I saw her sipping on during French class comes spilling out. I breathe through my mouth—bile, waste and sewage's too deadly a concoction—and pop in my earbuds, turn the music on low.

Ten minutes before class starts again, I'm about to leave my spot in the dank, tiled room when I hear click-clacking and then see Stanley's patent leather Mary Janes, followed by the heels of the girl who owns her. Lauren always wears the same pair of flats, studded ones with shiny crystals. A third pair of heels follow.

"Tyler's throwing his annual bash this Friday. You should totally come," Lauren starts. I hate eavesdropping—you never hear anything good about anyone—but it's too late to flee the scene unnoticed.

I squint, searching between the gaps of the stall door to see who's entered with them. I recognize the four-inch heeled boots. New Girl, Alice Brandon, who transferred from Regis two months ago, is standing next to them. No idea why she switched schools senior year; Regis is as good, if not better, than St. Mary's. A wave of green fever swallowed me whole when I first found out she transferred—something I didn't manage to do. Whatever her story is, I doubt I'll find out because from where I sit, it looks like Lauren has taken her under her wing.

"I'm not sure. May have to babysit for my little brother. I'll let you know by tomorrow." The tepid response makes me wonder if she knows what's good for her. Ever since Rose left, Lauren & Co. have run this school's social scene, and something about New Girl—maybe the way she wears her shiny, black hair in a sky-high tail and bats her fake lashes—makes you think she likes a good party.

"I need to buy something new to wear. You should come to the mall with us. We'll go after school," Stanley chimes in, dotting powder on her oily nose.

"Yeah, I don't know about that. My dad made me take AP calculus. I have no idea what I'm doing. Totally lost. I was thinking about asking that girl from my class—I think her name is Bella?—to help me with homework." Lauren coughs then laughs. New Girl sits two rows ahead of me in that class, but we haven't talked, so it sounds like she's digging a grave for herself for no good reason.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Unless you wanna commit social suicide, that is," Stanley says, eyes wide and head shaking.

"Yeah, you wanna make a circle around that one. Bad news all around. And once she's had a couple of drinks, she can't keep her legs closed," Lauren delivers the new school gospel while applying a spritz of her favorite perfume—some coconut-vanilla concoction that smells like it came from a discount store. "Last summer, she stooped to an all time low, hooked up with her best friend's boyfriend. Rose should have seen that one coming, if you ask me. The girl's got no class," she says in her singsong sweet voice. "Her mom's a stripper. Child Services took her away and placed her with daddy when she was eleven. The poor girl can't help herself. Plus, she hangs around with guys from La Push High."

I stare at her from my post in the distance—at her over-processed tresses that look like she dyes them herself from a box and her sparkly baby pink gloss applied in a thick layer—and almost let out a laugh.

"Those people are so ghetto," Stanley adds, as if she's anything better just because her parents pay for this school.

"Anyway. Rose was way too generous." I hear Lauren smacking her lips, covered in her trademark color, trying hard to sound bored of the topic. A good liar she never was.

"Who's Rose?" New Girl asks, just as planned.

"Rosalie Hale used to be the teen dream. The one every girl wanted to be and every guy wanted to get with. At least most people thought so. Personally, I never thought she was all that pretty. Whatever. She's not here anymore. She tried to kill herself after her boyfriend cheated on her with that little tramp. Can you imagine? Her parents shipped her off to some mental institution. I doubt she's coming back," Lauren informs her, and I can see her satisfied smile without looking.

"Poor Rose. She never saw it coming," Stanley continues with a heavy sigh. "She always was a bit naive. And that's only half of it. Pretty sure her former BFF at some point or another serviced half the soccer team."

"Oh, yeah?" New Girl says laughing, doubt ringing through her amusement.

"Believe whatever you want," Lauren snaps in irritation. "Last year she was rather chummy with Mr. Lache, our old English teacher, who departed abruptly after the semester. Rumor has it the old dragon, Sister Cope, caught them in his office during a tantalizing private instruction in fellatio and forced him to retire afterward." New Girl only giggles in response.

"You don't have to believe the rumor," Lauren says, now in full bitch-mode. "All I know is Bella and Rose walked away with A's in that class, which neither of them deserved." The sermon is over, so she strides out, her lieutenant on her heels.

My head's spinning, staring at the glow in the dark stickers on my ceiling. No idea how Rose got an A in English last semester. She submitted only about half of the required papers for that class and skipped one of the two exams. Fellatio instruction from Mr. Lache, the jellifish, with his skin so thin, almost translucent and his spine curved. The thought alone seems ridiculous, impossible. But then again, some of the things Rose does—like the time she flashed the sales clerk at the drugstore to stop him from calling the cops when he accused her of shoplifting—defy what you expect. The day the report cards were handed out, I'd started my self-imposed exile and skipped school, avoiding Edward and Rose at all cost.

Rose left for the summer three days later. I couldn't bear to watch the happy couple any longer. I'd been ignoring it—how it ate me alive—for way too long. Jealousy's like a cancer that keeps on eating away on you. Mine nearly reached end stage when I started treatment and started avoiding them.

I flip through the contacts on my phone, stop at EC and think about calling him. He wouldn't pick up or he'd hang up once he heard my voice. And he probably wouldn't know about Rose. She's secretive that way, never shares everything. Edward once said that on most days he sees maybe ten percent of who she is; the rest, she doesn't let you see.

_FIVE YEARS AGO_

"You have boobs now. Wear a bikini instead. It will look soooo much better." I'm staring at my almost thirteen-year-old body in the mirror inside of Rose's walk-in closet, wearing my blue bathing suit with seagulls on it. My hipbones stick out, and you can count my ribs.

"No, I don't …" I tell Rose. The last time I looked at my chest, my nipples looked swollen, but nothing like boobs. Nothing like what's starting to show on Rose's chest anyway. "Not like you."

"Mine will get too big, and then they'll just sag like Barbie's."

I stare at her. Rose hates her mother, Barbie. I think she always hated her. She rolls her eyes whenever Barbie says anything and sometimes even walks out of the room while she's talking.

"Yeah. I'm still pretty certain boys prefer your boobs to my non-existent ones."

"No, they don't." Rose is laughing.

"Right." I look at her and she gives me a serene smile.

"I heard Mikey wants to take you to Spring Fling." I make a face at Rose. "What? You don't like him?" Newton invited me once to his place to play Nintendo. I went because Charlie wanted me to, but Rose keeps on rubbing it in. "Nobody has asked me _yet_," she says.

"Mike's an idiot. I don't care. I don't even wanna go," I snap. She pulls out her Chupa Chups, making a plopping sound. "And nobody has asked you because they're afraid you'll say no. You said none of the boys at school were cool enough."

"Why so moody-broody? Got your period?" she teases. I haven't gotten a visit from Aunt Flow yet, a fact I keep a secret. No one needs to know how defective I am. "Take that off," she orders but doesn't wait for me to move. Her fingers slip along my shoulders, pushing the straps of my bathing suit down my arms. Rose kneels down in front of me and pushes the rest of the fabric down before getting up and handing me a polka dot bikini out of a drawer. "Here."

I've seen her wearing this bikini. It's cute—red with white dots. She wore it last summer.

"It's yours. I can't take it." I try handing it back to her, standing there naked, crossing my legs and holding one arm over my non-existent boobs.

"Take it," she insists, face serious like it is when she's having a stare down match with Barbie.

I pull on the bottom, and Rose ties the bikini top. My chest doesn't look like hers, but the top has padding, and it does make me look more grown up—like I have boobs.

We cream each other with suntan lotion before grabbing towels and riding on our bikes off to the beach. It's the first day of summer, and the water is too cold to go swimming. Still, we run in, the water splashing. Later, we sit shivering hard, our teeth chattering with purple-blue lips, wrapped up in our towels on the sand. The yellow sunrays barely warm our skin, and waves crash against the sand, dark and virulent, daring us. Rose leaves for her parents' beach house the next day, and I'm alone for the rest of the summer.

Two weeks before the start of school, a heat wave hits. By the time it's nine o'clock, it feels like the air is so hot and humid that you can't bear to move, and I'm throwing longing glances at the Cullens' driveway next door. The still missing car belongs to the owners of the only swimming pool within a twenty-mile radius.

"So ridic," Rose said when I told her about the pool. "Only they'd be pretentious enough to get a pool in a place where it rains all the time."

"You can come with Billy and me to the lake, Bella," Charlie suggests for what feels like the millionth time, standing with his fishing rod in hand at the doorway, ready to leave. I hate swimming in the lake. The water is murky and brown, and when my feet accidentally touch the ground, I feel mushy, slimy algae. Worse even is the green stuff that collects in between my legs in the bathing suit.

I want to swim in the Cullens' clean, chlorinated pool, where the water sparkles, and I can see my toes.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I answer, pretending to read a book.

"Jacob will be there, too."

"Mmm." Jacob, or Jake, is Billy's son. He likes to tease me, hold me under water and throw mud at me. Charlie thinks Jake and I are best friends.

"You know the Cullens are picking up the boy they're adopting. My guess is they won't be back for some time, and you can't go swimming in their pool without supervision."

"I know, Dad."

"Well, just trying to make sure. I'm heading out now. Don't get into any trouble. I'll see you later, Bells."

"Later." Prepared with my bikini underneath my green sundress, I sit Indian style on the kitchen counter, staring out the window for most of the day, already hating that boy they're adopting.

The doc's wife wants a child but can't have one. Rose overheard Barbie talking about it and then Charlie confirmed it. The Cullens tried to adopt for a long time and were turned down until now. Charlie says it's a shame they are having such a hard time adopting a kid just because of something stupid Esme did in college and that the Cullens really would make perfect parents in comparison to some other people in this town. When I ask him what he means by that, he doesn't answer.

The heat is almost retreating and the sun is no longer at its peak. I'm ready to give up hope, about to leave my spot near the window when the silver car pulls up into the driveway next door.

Without thinking, I jump off the counter, grab the towel already hanging over the kitchen chair and run to their door.

I stop dead in my tracks when I see him. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, the boy stands near the car. He's tall and thin, towering over Esme, and I wonder why they adopted someone so old. When you think of someone adopting a kid, you think of babies. Not a kid at least as old as me, if not older.

"Hey, Bella," Esme greets me. "Are you coming to say 'hi' to Edward?"

I stare, towel in hand, at the boy with his hunched shoulders. Judging by the dirt under his fingers and the scratch on his nose, he isn't looking to play nice.

"Hi, Edward." I step closer, waving my hand, though my instincts tell me to turn on my heels and run.

Instead of greeting me, he turns away. "Can I go to my room now?" he says with an annoyed tone to his voice.

"Sure, honey. In a minute, we'll show you your new home, but don't you––" Esme coos as if she is dealing with a misbehaving toddler.

"This is not my home!" he interrupts her, his fist slamming into the car door with a loud thud, leaving a small dent behind.

"Okay. Let's just calm down," Carlisle says, pulling a bag out of the trunk. But Edward ignores him and stomps right past him to the front door.

"Bella, honey, I'm sorry. Maybe you can come by tomorrow again?"

"Sure," I say and run back home. I don't dare show my face at the Cullens' for a whole week after that, scared of the angry kid. But then, the following Sunday, the temperature hits ninety again, and I can't resist.

I'm bored out of my mind. Rose is still gone, away at her beach house, and Angela is at her Christian summer camp, so I put on my old bathing suit and march over to the Cullens' again.

I ring the doorbell. Esme answers a couple of minutes later. "Hey, Bella." She pulls me into a hug. She used to smell of fancy perfume and hairspray, but now that smell is gone.

"I thought you'd come over sooner."

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

"I hope Edward didn't scare you." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Did you want to go use the pool?"

"Yeah, if it's not too much trouble." I shift from foot to foot, penitent. Glancing up at her, I notice the bags underneath her eyes.

"Okay, go ahead. I'll be right back. I'm just going to see whether Edward wants to join you."

I watch her walk up the stairs and wait in the hallway for her return.

"Edward?" I hear her knock on a door. "Bella is here. Do you want to come out and maybe spend some time with her?"

"I don't give a shit. No."

"You could hang out in the pool together."

"Are you crazy? Go away!" His voice alone scares the crap out of me, and I regret not telling her to not bother, that I'm perfectly fine without the spawn of Satan at the pool.

Edward, of course, doesn't come downstairs. I swim for a while, but suddenly the cool water isn't as refreshing. Everything seems heavy and drab. I leave before my fingers turn pruney.

I give up on the pool after that and divide my time between lounging around the house and the yard, mostly reading Charlie's old detective books. I don't see Edward again until it's almost time to head back to school.

I'm riding on my pink bike to the local store to buy candy, when I see him walking hastily near the side of the road, hands in his pockets, head bowed down.

"Hi," I say, getting off my bike. He walks faster, ignoring me.

"Hey!" I yell, running after him. I don't know what possesses me. "Why are you so rude to me? I haven't done anything to you."

He stops and turns but doesn't look at me. "It's not you."

Standing there on the side of the road, he looks so much older than the full-cheeked boys from school. His jaw's more defined, his shoulders seem broader; his clothes aren't neatly ironed and his jeans looks old and worn.

"Well, you sure act like it's me."

"Well, it's not. Okay?" He huffs, raises his brows. That's when I notice the duffle bag swung over his shoulder.

"Are you trying to run away?" I ask.

His reaction is immediate. "Shut up," he grumbles, gripping his hair with one hand and tugging at it.

"It's a long walk to the next bus stop. You know that, right?"

"Who says I was planning on taking a bus?" A condescending sneer is on his face.

"Well, if you think you're hitching a ride on this road, good luck with that," I scoff. That gets his attention. His head perks up.

"Why?" he demands, looking at me for the first time.

"This," I say, pointing at the road, "only takes you to the store. Maximum number of cars passing through here on a good day, I'd say ten. Likely driven by women on their way to the store. Good luck hitching a ride even to center station, and that's where you'll need to go to get a bus. You're not even going to get to the interstate from here."

He doesn't have a comeback to that. Instead he kicks a stone and stares off in the distance. "Good to know," he says after a long pause, spitting on weeds next to the crumbling asphalt of the road.

"The roads leaving the sawmill have trucks that go to Route 9," I say.

He nods. "Bella, huh?" He bites his lip and peeks down at me, a grin forming. I narrow my eyes. "You're headed to the store?"

"Yeah."

We walk the mile to the store in silence. He doesn't come into the store with me. When I head back outside with my bag of Skittles, I half expect him to be gone. But he isn't. He's leaning against the wall next to the store, one foot propped up against it, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

I bite my tongue, don't comment on the cigarette, and lean against the wall next to him.

"So why do you hate the Cullens?" I start.

"I don't hate them. I don't belong with them." He exhales smoke and lets his head fall back.

"So where do you belong?"

"Stupid question. With my family." He sighs, chews his lip.

"I don't understand. If you have parents, why are you with the Cullens?" I continue undeterred and without filter.

That boy's shoulders tense immediately. "I didn't say parents," he almost yells. Then, "Are you always this fucking nosey?"

"Do you always swear?"

"You're annoying." He's shaking his head.

"Don't be an asshole," I say, which makes him chuckle.

"Look who's swearing now." And then he grins again, baring his teeth.

"Shut up," I tell him, chewing on my sweets.

"Nice." He whistles and nods. I like him, I decide.

Rose comes home from her summer vacation at the beach and shows up at my door the day before school starts again. Something about them meeting for the first time makes my insides churn, and I'm half relieved when she doesn't smile or bother to say anything when she sees him at school. Rose, the coolest of them all, doesn't bat an eye. All the other girls do, practically tripping in their new shoes when he strolls into school on the first day of the semester. He's one grade above us, but miles above all the other boys. He's all cleaned up-the suit of the uniform fits him perfectly. By lunchtime, he's the talk of the school.

"I'm thinking about joining track this semester," stumpy-legged Jess announces in the girls locker room.

"Oh, my God, why would you do that?" Lauren says, sweeping her new bangs to the side.

"Yeah, why would you? You hate to run," Vicky, freckled and snub-nosed, comments.

Rose just laughs. "So pathetic."

"What?" Stanley says with a shrug.

"Don't be dense, fatty. Everyone already heard the rumor that a certain new guy will join the soccer team. And everyone also knows training for track will coincide with soccer." She straightens her shoulders, gives her her best princess smile. "Honestly, Stanley, do you think he'll be impressed by that?" Her glance swipes up and down Stanley's plump figure.

Nobody says anything but Lauren titters as if Rose has said the funniest thing. All of them know they're no match for Rose.

We're standing by the lockers picking up books, when Edward stops beside me.

"Hey, Bella," he starts, an easy smile on his lips. "Your dad picking you up from school?"

I shake my head, too flustered to answer. The boy in front of me now is not the same I met three weeks ago. It's not only the clean uniform. Leaning one arm against the locker next to mine, he's smooth and calm and confident. No hint of anger.

"No, I walk," I finally say.

"Great." He nods. "I'll wait for you after class," he says, heading off quickly.

Rose rolls her eyes when he's gone. "You're just as pathetic as Stanley."

"No, I'm not. He lives next door to me," I defend myself. Rose raises one brow. "We talk sometimes."

She keeps quiet for the rest of the day. It's Tuesday, which means Barbie will come pick her up from school to take her to ballet class. I watch as Rose is carted off in the SUV. Edward is standing at the bottom of the steps, his backpack swung over one shoulder. My skin prickles with anticipation for something I don't know as I stand beside him. I want to run away and stay all at the same time.

We walk in silence until we hit Hunter Lane, where Mike and Tyler live, and take a turn. I catch them out of the corner of my eye staring.

"So …" Edward starts. "I heard about your mom." It's a hit out of left center and I trip, my heart beating in my throat. He grabs me quickly by my elbow, but I pull away just as swiftly, standing steady on my own. "Hey. Don't be mad. I don't care. I just wanted you to know that I understand."

"What?" I stop in my tracks and glare at him. There's no way he truly would, not after the lies he's heard, because that's all everybody tells. The truth's not shocking enough, not dramatic enough to be retold. I've heard all the tales about my mother from behind closed doors before. I just never had someone try to tell them _to me_. "What do you think you understand?" I retort when he doesn't respond.

"Never mind," he mumbles, brows furrowed. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up, okay?"

I shake my head and we start walking again, only this time around the pace of my steps is faster.

"Wait," he says when we're nearly at home. "I'm sorry about what I said. I …" he fumbles, his hands gripping the strap of his backpack. "I thought … I guess I thought we're not that different."

"You're wrong." I stop and stare at him.

"Can I ask you something?" He kicks a pebble out of the way, wasting time. "The mill—what's the best way to get there? I heard Carlisle talk about a trail that leads to the place when you walk straight through the woods behind the house. You know which way?"

I do know. I used to get lost in the woods all the time—back when everything I knew were square blocks, brightly lit billboards and paved roads. But then Rose showed me the trails, and how to find the way among the thick green moss and brown, damp bark. There are no directions to impart; not getting lost takes experience, a sense of the light as it shines through the trees.

I lick my lips. "It's not a trail. You have to head west. Get a compass." I don't know why I'm telling him this. If I were a real cop's daughter, I would have done what's right and lied.

And I know he is right—we're not that different. Not at all.

At school the next day we don't greet each other like we're neighbors, like we talk. Our eyes lock briefly in the hall, and we go our separate ways.

"He's staring at you," Rose says with a smirk over lunch. I don't bother to turn, ignore her and rip my ham sandwich into pieces. "What happened yesterday?" She asks, because she smells everything.

"Nothing." I shrug. "You can go hang with him if you like." I offer, like I don't care. And maybe I don't.

"He's a delinquent." Rose stares straight at me. " I'd never."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. I apologize for the long delay in updating again. You know, the holidays … yada, yada, yada.**


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